


Triptych: The Crucifixion of Blair Sandburg

by elaine



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaine/pseuds/elaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reinterpretation of the religious imagery of the crucifixion into the events of 'The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg' and post series. If this concept offends you, then better read no further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Agony

**Author's Note:**

> This story uses three well established religious themes - the Agony, the Crucifixion and the Descent From The Cross - as inspiration. 
> 
> In religious terms, the Agony refers to the period in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus struggles with the knowledge of what he is about to suffer.
> 
> I wondered for a long time what Blair might have been thinking in the hours before the press conference, and whether he had any doubts regarding what he was about to do.

Blair's palms are sweaty, there are butterflies – big,  _huge_  butterflies – in his stomach. He frowns at the folded scrap of paper in his hands. The letters look strange – like Aramaic maybe – and he can't read a word. His vision is blurry, sure, but he suspects that his reading problem is due more to the fact that his writing is barely legible, even for him.  
  
Ironically – and he's all too aware of the irony – his hearing is sharper than it's ever been. Not sentinel sharp, to be sure, but definitely more acute. He wishes it wasn't. He doesn't want to hear the sound of voices muttering instructions and curses, or practicing intros. Doesn't want to hear the metallic scrape of cameras and lighting equipment being assembled.  
  
He paces. Never one to stand still for very long, Blair's so jittery right now he's even annoying himself. He forces himself to stand in one place, imagining his feet glued to the expensive Persian rug. A glance at the clock tells him it's less than two minutes since he last looked and over seven minutes until it's time for him to go out there and get this whole charade over with. He deliberately hasn't thought past that time. He doesn't dare. He realises he's vibrating, only his feet remaining still, and gives up the uneven battle. He paces again, four steps forward, four back. You'd think Chancellor Edwards' study would be bigger. More impressive.  
  
Some people… (Jim…) … _some_ people might think he's doing this out of guilt, or to protect Jim, and there's a certain amount of truth in that. Mostly, he's doing it because it's the right thing to do. But, if he thinks about the consequences, allows himself to imagine Jim's shamefaced gratitude, or Megan's approval he'll never be entirely sure of his motives. He  _really_  doesn't dare indulge in fantasies of Naomi's horror and dismay at the damage she's done.  
  
Blair's long since accepted that he's not always as karmically pure as Naomi, who only ever does anything with the best intentions, regardless of the actual, often disastrous, outcome. It's one of the things he loves about her. One of the things that makes it impossible for him to remain angry with her even now, with his life in tatters around him.   
  
Of course, he doesn't have to do this. He could just throw this scrap of paper in the trash; go out there and accept the applause and the honours he's always dreamed of. The movie rights he joked about with Jim – so long ago now – could become a reality.  
  
What had Jim said? Go for the brass ring? He could actually do that. It's not the first time he's thought about it. It's the first time, with his back up against the wall and his nuts in a vice, that he's seriously considering it.  
  
Or he could go out there and lie. Deny Jim's sentinel abilities and brand himself a fraud. Wreck his life. His friendship with Jim is already in ruins and there's no guarantee that this press conference will fix anything between them.  
  
Jim can be such an unforgiving bastard, after all.   
  
But, he sees the way the reporters swarmed around Jim that night at the docks. Hears the 'we're not worthy' that their friends – their  _friends_ , for God's sake – chorused so mockingly. Jim can't work in those conditions. It's only a matter of time before something happens. Before Jim gets hurt, or killed. He can't let that happen, no matter what the consequences are for him.  
  
He realises, suddenly, that his hands are steady, and he can read the words on the paper, though the writing's still atrocious. And when the door opens, he straightens his shoulders and smiles calmly at the Chancellor's PA, and follows him out into the conference room.  
  
***

When Rafe comes into Simon's office to announce sarcastically that Sandburg's holding a press conference Jim thinks,  _this is it._  He'd always known Blair would betray him one day. Now that day has arrived. He follows Rafe down the hallway to the break room apathetically, because at least the waiting is over now.  
  
He watches as Blair fusses with a bit of paper and clears his throat. The first few words pass over his head entirely. He doesn't need to hear Sandburg's academic spiel again; he's heard this kind of stuff plenty of times before. So he misses the point where Blair diverges from the usual text. Then he hears the word 'fraud'. And 'fiction'. And 'deception'.  
  
And all the time, Blair's eyes never move far from the notes he's reading. Never lift to meet Jim's dumbfounded stare. Because he's lying, of course, and not even Blair – who knows more euphemisms for lying than anyone Jim's ever met – can pretend that it's not a complete and total lie. It's so obvious that Jim can't believe anyone will be taken in by it but, as the scene fades, he hears Chancellor Edward's voice, off camera, too distant for anyone but him to hear, telling Blair he's fired.  
  
Then, because it's over and everyone's leaving the room, Jim forces himself to move. The anger that's sustained him through the last few days is gone and he feels numb. Luckily, he doesn't need to feel to do his job.  
  
He wanted his life back, and Blair's given it to him.  _Be careful what you wish for…_  
  
Later, much later, Jim will replay the scene in his mind, over and over. He'll use Blair's techniques to help his sense memory and he'll focus on Blair's face until it devolves into the red, green and blue dots that make up the TV screen. He'll hear the frantic thudding of Blair's heart and the tiny, shocked murmur that Naomi makes as her son destroys his career before her eyes.   
  
And it still won't make any sense to him.  
  
He knows what Blair has done. He knows why Blair did it. But, that Blair did it for  _him_ … that, he doesn't understand at all; maybe he never will.

 


	2. The Crucifixion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crucifixion is the most instantly recognisable of the three themes - a man nailed to a cross.
> 
> Someone understands what Blair really did at the press conference.

“Why?” Blair asks. “Why me?” It's not the most original question and he doesn't imagine for a moment that it's going to make the slightest bit of difference, but he's tried everything else – screaming, crying, shouting – he's tried reasoning with Svensen, tried arguing, pleading, demanding, but this guy is sicker even than Lash. Never thought he'd ever think that. Hopes he hasn't said it aloud, but Svensen's slight frown is thoughtful, not angry, so Blair guesses that he didn't.   
  
From the moment that he woke up here – a derelict church, it looks like – he's known that it would end like this, and he's been fighting it with every scrap of strength in the only way he could. Words. And hope; hope that Jim would find him in time. He doesn't have the energy any more, can feel the life draining out of him with the blood he's lost. Now, he just wants to know why.  
  
Svensen smiles. It's a strange kind of smile – there's pity in it, and elation. Blair doesn't think he gets off on causing pain; it's the cerebral rush that does it for him. In other circumstances, Blair could empathise with that. Just, not now.   
  
He pats Blair's bare chest in a friendly way, sending waves of agony through him as his shredded back moves against the wood. In spite of that, all Blair thinks is that maybe he should have tried this approach sooner. This guy  _aches_  to be understood. But it's too late now. Poised here on the brink, they both know it's inevitable; that the old wooden mallet is going to come down and drive the lovingly hand forged iron nail through Blair's hand and into the rough wood beneath.  
  
“Please…” Blair tries to moisten his lips with his tongue, but his mouth is an arid wasteland and there's nothing there to give. “I need to know.”  
  
And again, there's that weird moment of communion. On some level at least, they understand each other. Svensen whispers in a sing-song tone: “Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world.”  
  
The Bible reference is easy, but there's a kind of a musical quality as well… and then he gets it. “Fuck, I'm not any kind of messiah, man.” It's pointless to argue, but he does anyway. He knows he'll fight as long as he has breath to speak with. “Why  _me_?"  
  
Svensen looks surprised, then pitying. “Greater love hath no man than this…” he watches Blair expectantly.  
  
“I  _haven't_  laid down my life…” he pauses. It's hard to think, even harder to articulate. “Okay, maybe I have, but it wasn't  _me_  laying it down. She killed me. And it wasn't for my fellow man.”  
  
“Not that.” Svensen's face twists in annoyance. His victim/student isn't living up to his expectations. “You sacrificed yourself so that others might live.”  
  
Suddenly, Blair understands. And he can't pretend that he doesn't; he can see Svenson knows it, but he can't just let this ride. Not even now. “It wasn't a sacrifice. It was the truth. I'm a liar and a fraud.” He manages a bitter laugh, even as pain rips through him. “Some messiah I am.”  
  
Svensen shakes his head, smiling. He's sure of his beliefs and nothing Blair says is going to change that. “Detective Ellison wasn't worthy of your sacrifice, but then that's the whole point, isn't it?”  
  
“No. No…” Blair's not sure what he's denying – Jim's unworthiness or Svensen's reasoning.  
  
“Besides…” and now Svensen's tone changes, becomes creepily confiding, “you're just too perfect for the role. It's about time all those rabid fundamentalists who worship a blond-haired, blue-eyed saviour were reminded that Jesus was actually a Jew. It's a pity about the blue eyes, of course.” He frowns briefly, “but you have no discernable father, and your mother must have been very young when you were born.”  
  
Blair protests instinctively at the mention of Naomi. It scares the hell out of him that Svensen has found out so much about him. He can't bear the thought that this sicko might go after her next.  
  
He might as well save his breath. Svensen's so deep inside his own reality now that nothing else registers. “You've already had your resurrection. I'm sorry about that. It seems such a waste.” Frowning thoughtfully and ignoring Blair's desperate attempts to engage him again, he lifts the mallet and brings it down, forcefully, on the head of the nail.  
  
***

They approach the old church as unobtrusively as possible – no sirens, no flashing lights. It's in the country, on a side road, no reason for any car to be near, but that can't be helped. They don't have time to sneak in on foot. It's almost three – the ninth hour, according to the expert Simon called in. Almost time for Sandburg to die.  
  
At the main door, they pause. Simon is behind Jim; Brown, Joel and Rafe at a side door. Jim hears Joel's voice, a whisper, confirming they're good to go. Only a sentinel could have heard it. They haven't talked about it, never will if Jim has any say in it; but after Blair threw away his career on national television, things changed. He nods to Simon, and they slam themselves against the old wooden doors.  
  
The doors give way easily, considering how solid and heavy they look, and Jim hears another crash, like an echo. Then they're in and all he can see is a large wooden cross standing in the nave of the church; and the man beside it holding a long spear in his hands.  
  
“Drop the weapon.” His voice betrays none of his fear and revulsion. His gun is steady too. Aimed directly at Svensen's heart, his finger ready; ready to ease back and end the bastard's life given the slightest excuse. “Drop it and move away.”  
  
The fair, fine boned face hardens and Svensen turns, lifting the spear, aiming for Blair's ribs. Jim distinctly hears two shots. His own, slightly later, is wide as Simon's shot hits Svensen's shoulder, sending him flying. Wounded, but alive.  
  
Jim curses between clenched teeth, but moves forward swiftly, reaching Svensen's stirring body and kicking away the spear then, deliberately, kicking the prone man in the gut. The air leaves Svensen's body in a satisfying whoosh; he's not going to pose any kind of danger for a while.  
  
Now, Jim has to force himself to breathe shallowly, or he'll lose it for sure. He's in a pool of light coming from several large candles – the kind that churches use, he realises – and only a couple of steps away from the cross that stands in the centre of the mellow light. Blair is on that cross, and he forces himself to look up. To see what's been done to his partner.  
  
He's kept such a tight control on his emotions, as well as his senses, that at first he can't react at all. It's too unreal a tableau – a large cross, made of rough wood, a naked man nailed and tied to it. There's a lot of blood; running down Blair's face from the vicious circle of thorns on his head, down his sides from the scourging on his back. Jim can't see his back, but he can smell the blood all right. It's all he can smell at that moment, and he gags.  
  
Simon's right behind him, and Jim hears his indrawn breath, then he's bellowing for the paramedics and for a ladder, “now, dammit!” but Jim isn't about to wait that long.  
  
The closest thing he can find is a pew – old, wooden, heavy as hell – and somehow he drags it to the base of the cross. Not nearly high enough to be of use, but Brown has arrived, his face creased with shock and disgust, carrying an old chair. Jim places it precariously on the seat of the pew and steps up while Brown holds it steady.  
  
Close up, it's even worse than he'd expected. Blair's barely conscious, his head lolling weakly. Swallowing against another rising tide of nausea, Jim eases the vile coronet off Blair's head, ignoring the thorns tearing into his own flesh, and tosses it violently away.  
  
“Blair.” He cups his hand against a sweaty, chilled face, leans in to press his own cheek lightly against Blair's. “It's okay, Chief. We're gonna get you out of here. It's almost over.”  
  
A bare flicker of Blair's lashes is the only reaction, but Jim is somehow reassured. He tries to get a little closer. He needs to get Blair down from this monstrous travesty but, just for a moment, he needs this even more.  
  
There's moisture on his face and he tells himself that it's only Blair's blood and sweat. And he knows he's lying to himself, but right now, he just doesn't care. 

 

 


	3. Descent From the Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Descent From The Cross usually shows the small group of women who remained with Jesus until the end, cradling his body at the foot of the cross. In this story I've used the term in a metaphorical sense.
> 
> The nightmare's over, but how do Jim and Blair move on?

At two a.m., the hospital's all but deserted. That doesn't prevent Simon from striding through the hallways like a particularly pugnacious thundercloud, glaring at anyone who so much as glances at him.   
  
Nobody tries to ask him what he's doing there, though whether it's because they recognise him or because he's too intimidating he doesn't know.  
  
The door of Sandburg's room is closed. There's no 'Do Not Disturb' sign, but there's some kind of aura about it that makes Simon hesitate before breathing Jim's name in warning before opening the door.  
  
And, dammit, there  _should_  have been a warning sign on the door, because the first thing Simon sees is Blair, belly down on the bed, his arms stretched out in some sick recreation of his crucifixion. He can only think:  _it's like being kicked in the guts_ , except he's had that happen to him, and this is worse. He knows he's never going to enter a church again without remembering the sight of Blair on that cross.  
  
Jim looks up at the hoarse sound he makes, and for a second the expression on his face is so raw and open – like the wounds he'd seen on Sandburg's back – that Simon realises that Jim is in as much, or maybe more, trouble than Sandburg. Then the moment passes and Jim's face is merely grim and determined.  
  
Simon blinks, and now he can see why Blair's in that position. Face down, yeah, that makes sense – his back is covered in dressings from his shoulders down to where the thin sheet discreetly covers his ass. Simon doesn't want to think about what's under those dressings so he doesn't. Blair's right arm is strapped to some kind of board; to stop him pulling at the IV drip, Simon guesses, and there's a heart monitor clipped to his forefinger. Its quiet beep is the only reassuring thing about this room.  
  
Blair's left arm is stretched out because Jim is clinging to him with both hands, his thumb moving slowly over the back of the fingers curled around his own. There's a bloodied dressing on the back of Blair's hand that makes Simon wince. Blair is, mercifully, asleep.  
  
“How is he?”  _How are_ you _?_  he should be asking, but he won't. Not yet, anyway.  
  
Jim shrugs. His eyes are on Blair's face, watching intently. Simon gets the impression that Jim is monitoring Blair's heart rate, temperature, and half a dozen things more, far more closely that any manmade instrument ever could. There's no room in him to feel uncomfortable about that right now.  
  
“It's too early to tell. They're giving him morphine for the pain.”  
  
Shit. Simon drags over a chair and places it beside Jim's. He drops into it heavily. He's exhausted and he wants desperately to sleep, but he can't leave Jim like this. Silence falls between them, oppressive and unyielding, while Simon searches for something to say. He's never seen Jim this bad, not after the divorce, not after Sandburg died and came back.  
  
Finally, knowing it's not going to be enough, he offers: “Svensen's confessed to everything. The two murders as well.”   
  
Jim doesn't respond, but Simon sees the tell tale twitch in his jaw. “He seems to think it's his mission to show people what the real meaning of…”  
  
“I don't want to know what that sick fuck thinks.” Jim's voice is low and furious. “I don't want you talking about him anywhere  _near_  Sandburg.”  
  
It's not the kind of reaction he wanted, but it is, at least, a reaction. “Jim, we're going to need a statement from him as soon as he's able…”  
  
“No!” Jim drags his eyes away from Sandburg's face and glares at Simon. The expression on his face is murderous. Simon's seen him angry before, but he's never felt intimidated. He does now, for a couple of heartbeats, until he reminds himself who he is and who he's facing. “We caught him in the act, for God's sake. We don't need to involve Sandburg. He's been through enough.”  
  
Simon's patience snaps. He's spent the last eleven hours making sure everything has been done by-the-book perfect – the crime scene, Svensen's interrogation, once he'd been treated for the graze on his shoulder, even his processing. He's not leaving room for even the slightest chance that something could go wrong. “He's killed two men and damn near killed Sandburg as well. He's our only living witness, Jim. We need his evidence.”   
  
“I said…” and Jim's head whips around.  
  
Following his gaze, Simon sees that Blair's eyelids are flickering like he's trying to open them. Jim leans towards him, releasing his grip on Blair's fingers to reach for a wipe and brush it lightly across the gummed lids. He tosses the wipe into a basket and leaves his hand there on Blair's cheek, thumb still moving restlessly.  
  
“Blair? You awake, buddy?” Simon can't see Blair's eyes now, but Jim's shoulders tense and he scoops a few ice chips into a spoon and slips it between cracked lips. “Slowly, Chief. There's plenty more.”  
  
He feeds Blair another teaspoonful of ice and then runs a wipe carefully over his face, avoiding the wounds on his forehead. Blair's eyes are open, no more than a crack, but he doesn't seem very coherent. Next, Jim rubs some Vaseline over Blair's parted lips, all the while murmuring reassurances. When he's done, he resumes his grip on Blair's fingers. The whole scene makes Simon feel like he's intruded on something personal, something intimate.  
  
A minute passes and Blair's eyes are still open. He seems a little more aware. Simon decides that's good enough. “Blair, do you think you're up to talking about what happened?”  
  
Jim's eyes meet his, icily furious. Simon ignores him, concentrating on Blair, whose forehead is furrowed in confusion. His eyes track hazily between Simon and Jim. Who bends over him again, strokes a gentle hand over Blair's hair and murmurs, “didn't Naomi ever tell you not to walk out in front of eighteen wheelers?”  
  
A vague smile lifts the corners of Blair's mouth. “'S tha' wha' I di'?” His speech is so slurred it takes Simon a moment to understand what he's said.  
  
“Yeah, but you should see the truck.” Jim's voice is steady, tinged with humour. It's the best acting Simon's seen in a long time. “You can tell us all about it later, okay? Do you need some more pain meds?”  
  
There's a long pause while Blair's face goes blank. Then he snickers weakly. “Nah. This muss be the goo' stuff…”  
  
Jim chuckles. It sounds almost genuine and Simon relaxes a little. Obviously, Sandburg's doing okay. Or, at least, better. “Nothing but the best for you, Chief. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I'll be right here.”  
  
Blair relaxes with a little sigh and almost immediately he's just… gone. The monitor beeps its reassurance to Simon, but right now he's more interested in that little exchange than in Blair's health. Christ, he hadn't realised it'd gone that far between them. “Jim… you and Sandburg…” he hesitates on the verge of a question he can't quite bring himself to ask.  
  
“We're not…” Jim clamps his lips together, scowling. Looks away. “It's not what you think.”  
  
“That kinda depends on what you think I think...” Simon shakes his head, not sure he understands, himself, what he's just said. It's far too late – or too early – to have this kind of conversation. “Jim…”  
  
“I've thought about it.” Jim's voice is low, strained. He keeps his eyes on the floor, avoiding Simon's suddenly sharpened gaze. “I've thought about it a lot, but I can't…”  
  
“Why not?” Jesus. Simon Banks, Marriage Guidance Counsellor.  _Don't give up your day job_ , he thinks. Dispensing relationship advice isn't one of his strengths and he'd rather not talk about it; but this is Jim here. And Sandburg. And he can't just go home and leave them like this. “You're obviously crazy about him, and in case you haven't noticed, he's crazy about you, too. And it seems to work, the two of you.”  
  
“What if it doesn't, Simon?” Jim bows his head until his forehead is pressed against Blair's fingers. “It was hard enough when Caro and I divorced. With Blair, I'm so far beyond where… I don't think I could survive it if Blair left me.”  
  
“Blair? Leave you?” Simon laughs without any humour at all. He's seen Blair grow from a punk kid who thought the sun shone out of Jim's ass, into a mature man who's bent and twisted his life to fit it into Jim's. Who's shown absolutely no sign of ever wanting to leave Jim's side. “Jim,  _Blair_  isn't going to be the one that ends your relationship. I think the last few months have proved that.”  
  
Jim flinches, but Simon isn't moved to sympathy. Much. Still, his voice is softer when he offers to stay with Blair so Jim can get some rest. Jim's refusal is pretty much what he expects, so he drags himself out of the chair and puts a hand on Jim's shoulder. “Trust him, Jim. Hasn't he earned it?”  
  
He looks back when he gets to the door. Jim's forgotten him already. He's staring at Sandburg with pain and longing and fear written all over his face. Simon still doesn't have any clue what he'll decide, but there's nothing more he can do tonight.  
  
***

“Jim, I really think you oughta reconsider.” Simon's famous scowl doesn't often fail, even with Jim, who knows him better than anyone. It's failing now, to his evident frustration. “Sandburg should be in hospital, not here.”  
  
“It's not gonna happen, Simon. Blair wanted to come home, and I brought him.” Even thinking about letting Blair out of his personal control makes Jim's skin crawl. “After what that sick fuck did to him…”  
  
“…and he's not getting bail. I can promise you that.”  
  
“That's not the point. D'you think  _Blair's_  gonna care about that right now? He hardly knows what's happening most of the time.” In fact, the only thing Blair really registers is Jim's presence, and when Jim isn't right there beside him, Blair becomes restless and agitated – he is now, though Jim can tell he's still asleep. He begrudges even the few minutes it's taking to convince Simon, and if Blair actually wakes… well, Simon will be out on his ass before he knows what's hit him.  
  
Simon sighs in irritation. Jim tries not to mind; he knows Simon's just worried about Blair. Everybody is. “All the more reason for him to stay in the hospital.”  
  
“Look, Simon, I was a medic, remember? If he needs to go back, I'll take him. Right now, he's better off here.” Jim takes Simon's arm and turns him towards the door. He doesn't have time to deal with this kind of crap. Blair is where he needs to be, where Jim needs him to be, and that's all he knows or cares about. “I promise I'll take good care of him.”  
  
With one final grumble, Simon allows himself to be ushered out of the loft. Jim closes the door far more gently than he really wants to and trudges upstairs, shaking his head tiredly. He hasn't slept much in the last few days.  
  
At least Blair hasn't woken yet, and for that he's grateful. Jim pauses at the top of the stairs to check on him, and even though he knows what to expect, the sight that greets him sends a pang of hurt so deep, so intense, that Jim's breath catches in his throat.  
  
Blair's curled up on his side in the middle of the bed, his arms pulled in against his chest, his head tucked down so that only his hair and a sliver of pale skin shows above the comforter. Jim walks over to the bed and sits carefully on the side; he's learned not to do anything too suddenly or too forcefully. Sometimes, Blair's fragility terrifies him. He brushes a strand of hair back, and even now, it's hard not to flinch at the sight of the small, scabbed wounds scattered across Blair's forehead.  
  
Touching Blair's hair has become dangerously addictive. Jim allows his fingers to stray across the tumbled mess of curls a couple of times, then cups his hand over Blair's cheek. The skin feels warm, maybe a degree higher than normal. Not enough to concern him, though, and he has all the antibiotics and pain meds prescribed by the doctors at the hospital.  
  
His thumb smoothes gently across Blair's cheekbone, and after a while the dark lashes flutter and slowly lift. “Hey.”  
  
A faint smile replaces the dazed confusion on Blair's face. For the first time since Jim brought him home he actually seems to know where he is. “Hey.”  
  
Looking down at Blair, Jim feet the knots in his gut loosen at last. Blair is with him, safe; he's where he belongs, and Jim is going to make sure he stays right here. All the fears of the past few months seem pointless now. It's far easier than Jim could ever have imagined to bend down and kiss the soft, full lips.  
  
***

Lighting the candles, Jim almost balks. The smell of hot wax will always, now, be linked in his mind with pain and fear, and the overpowering stench of blood. When he turns off the lamp, it gets worse. The light straggling through the windows is grey and dull, just like it was in the church. And – as it was in the church – in the centre of that golden circle of warmth and light is Blair.   
  
If Jim has ever thought of Blair as beautiful – and he has, frequently – then Blair with the candlelight glowing softly on his features is, quite simply, stunning. He'd feel a lot better, though, if this Blair was the only Blair he could see in his mind's eye. Still, they've talked about this and he's agreed to do it, so he will. Because, for some reason neither of them truly understands, Blair seems to need to do it this way.  
  
Jim summons up a smile for Blair, lying on the bed, watching him with mingled anticipation and anxiety. “Ready, Chief?”  
  
Blair smiles and nods and swallows nervously. He's not ready, not at all. Neither is Jim, but he can't find any more excuses to delay this moment.  
  
He slips the bathrobe from his shoulders and walks steadily towards the bed.  
  
An hour later, Blair, naked, sweaty, and oh so slowly and lovingly aroused, his hair burnished by the soft golden light, his skin alternately gleaming and shadowed by the flickering of the flames, is transcendent; beyond the ability of Jim's vocabulary to describe him.  
  
Jim pauses for a moment to enjoy what he's wrought – Sandburg, speechless, aroused; aware only of his body and the things that Jim is doing to that body. He's never really been in any doubt as to which of them is the more experienced in this field but luckily, it doesn't seem to matter. Sentinel senses, he's discovering, more than make up for his lack of expertise in making love to a man.  
  
Sweat gleams on Blair's body, plastering the short slightly wiry hairs to his chest and running in tantalising rivulets across his temples, and down his sides. Bending over, Jim licks a salty little trickle, following it up to Blair's hairline. He sighs and nuzzles the damp curls while Blair sobs weakly.  
  
“Soon, sweetheart. Soon, I promise,” he whispers against Blair's throat. There's another salty little puddle in the hollow at the base of that throat… that lovely throat with the eminently suckable Adam's apple. He laps up the delicious taste of Blair and moves reluctantly away.  
  
The rapid rise and fall of Blair's chest sends shadows skittering across his skin, highlighting the too prominent ribs, shading the place where his belly falls away from the arc of his ribcage. Jim lays his hands along Blair's sides, framing his body, and leans forward to kiss the dense patch of hair in the centre of his chest. Only then do his thumbs move, brushing slowly, delicately, across the peaked nipples.   
  
Blair makes a quiet, broken sound; almost inaudible, but Jim's senses are dialled as high as he can safely take them. He's not leaving anything to chance as he lays himself down beside Blair and slips his hand between Blair's legs.  
  
Sure enough, Blair's heartbeat skyrockets and his breath comes in rapid gasps when Jim begins to rub his fingertip over the sensitive little opening. He circles it slowly, feeling the faint fluttering pulses as Blair's body responds instinctively. He remembers how it had felt touching himself and thinks, wonderingly,  _I'm touching Blair's asshole. I'm putting my finger in Blair's asshole_.  
  
For a while it seems as though Blair has stopped breathing. Then he drags in a messily ragged breath and releases it with a brief, sharp grunt. He hasn't said an actual word in a long time. Jim replaces his single finger with two, moving them easily inside Blair's channel. It isn't going to take long he realises, with a tiny stab of panic. He knows it's what Blair wants. He wants it, too; he's just not sure he's ready for it yet.  
  
Eventually, but sooner than he'd expected, Jim comes to the conclusion that he's as ready for this as he's ever going to be. The way Blair's moving on his fingers is evidence enough that, once again, the guide is way ahead of his sentinel. He retreats, sliding his fingers free of Blair's ass. They both whimper pathetically at the loss of contact.  
  
“You ready, buddy?” He's already spreading the lube over his cock and thinking about the logistics of actually getting himself inside Blair. Even with Blair's knees drawn up and spread wide, it looks like a damn awkward angle. He glances up at Blair's face, his heart pounding.   
  
The candles aren't going to last much longer, but they still cast more than enough light. Blair's hair is fanned out across the pillow, haloed with gold and copper tints brought out by the mellow light. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark with passion, his lips soft, swollen, and slightly parted, while shadows cast his rounded forehead, high cheekbones, and that short, straight nose into relief. The tiny new scars on his forehead and temples seem almost to glow against the gilded skin, and the damp tendrils of short hair clinging around them create the vague impression of a shadowy crown.  
  
Jim's eyes sweep from Blair's face, down his torso, stretched taut by the arching of his back and his out-flung arms. The barely healed scars are shockingly prominent on his palms. Blair has such slender wrists for a man. They look so terribly fragile, far too fragile to bear his whole weight. For a moment Jim can almost see, as he does in his nightmares, the rough wooden cross beam behind Blair's shoulders.  
  
At first Jim is only aware of the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. All the wounds that had begun to heal over the last few weeks feel raw and open again. Shudders run through him, and a fierce anger, not just at Svensen, but at Blair too, for reminding him of that terrible day. Then he meets Blair's eyes.  
  
“Please…” It's a sound only a sentinel could hear, and so full of desperate need that all the fight drains out of him.   
  
“God… oh God, Blair…” He swallows, still fighting for some desperate measure of control. “Don't ask me to… to…”  
  
Blair doesn't answer, simply turns his face slightly away. His chest rises in a long, struggling breath.  
  
He had lived that day; Jim only arrived for the final scene. Blair  _lived_  it. Is still living it, day after day, moment by moment. Jim sees it every day. He's watched Blair's suffering with impotent fury – fury at Svensen, at the world that gave birth to such a monster, at himself for not preventing it. If this is what Blair needs, then how can Jim refuse him? He reaches down between Blair's legs for a last, gentle caress. “All right. Whatever you want, Chief.”  
  
Blair makes a small, helpless sound and, as Jim presses into him, lifts his legs to wrap around Jim's thighs. Jim thrusts shakily a couple of times and then everything seems to fall into place. Blair's cock slides against his belly, leaving trails of wet heat and Jim relaxes into the rhythm of thrust and counter thrust.  
  
Their bodies know what to do; pleasure and hunger build without Jim having to think about the mechanics of it after all. He supports himself on his elbows, instinctively keeping most of his weight off Blair. The beautiful, candle-lit face is still partly turned away, and all of Blair's attention is somehow turned inward. Not even the stranger who has inhabited Blair's body for the last three weeks is with Jim now. There's no sign of Blair, no sign of any consciousness at all.  
  
Acting on impulse, Jim stretches out his arms, keeping some of his weight balanced on his forearms, and threads his fingers through Blair's, crucifying himself on his lover's body. A quick intake of breath, the flicker of a glance over his face tells Jim that he's done the right thing. He doesn't understand what it means to Blair. It's enough just to give him what he needs.  
  
Suddenly, the easiness between them evaporates. Blair moans and begins to move beneath him, thrusting up urgently, clenching his thighs to urge Jim on. He drops his head, turning his face into the sanctuary of Blair's throat. There he can breathe in Blair's scent, taste him, see, hear, and feel nothing but him.   
  
When Blair climaxes, the gentle contractions around his cock are enough to tip Jim over the edge too. He sinks down, gasping for breath, feeling the sweat pouring off him. Blair's body, beneath him, is like a furnace. It takes all Jim's self control not to collapse on top of him; his arms ache from the strain, but the fierce grip of Blair's fingers is enough to convince him not to break that fragile, necessary link.  
  
He nuzzles Blair's throat, scattering tiny kisses across the sweaty skin, while Blair trembles silently. Finally, his hands are released and Jim pushes himself up on his elbows to look down into Blair's face. His eyes are almost black in the dim light, and filled with tears. But it's just Blair that Jim sees. Not whole perhaps, but returned to him at last.  
  
He kisses the wet lashes and cheeks, then Blair's mouth. “Welcome back, Chief.”

 

 


End file.
